


You Want It in the Worst Way

by silverdawn89



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Can't. stop. tagging, Companion piece to a fic I haven't actually got around to writing yet, Discussion about murder, F/M, Het, I don't even write het!, I'm gonna get a name for myself writing about crazy serial killers, Insinuation of incest, Men going down on ladies is pretty much a bulletproof kink for me, My kinks let me show you them, Older Woman/Younger Man, Other than porn obvs, PWP, Swearing. Lots and lots of swearing, Undercover Auror fic, Vaguely BDSM-y, Yeah I really don't know what this is, except for how I apparently do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverdawn89/pseuds/silverdawn89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an Auror, Michael is used to dealing with the sociopathic underbelly of the wizarding world. Nothing quite prepared him for Miranda Zabini though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Want It in the Worst Way

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I started writing this Ginny/Blaise undercover Auror fic, and it was going to cute and fun and UST-filled ('cause that's how I roll). And then I lost interest. Strangely, what intrigued me more was the side pairing of Michael (who at the time was an OC, but now I've retroactively decided he's Michael Corner instead) and Mrs Zabini, because I've been wanting to write about Mrs Zabini and her shady, Black Widow-y ways ever since I read that all-too-brief description of her in Half-Blood Prince (apparently not-quite serial killers are a _thing_ with me. Who knew, right?).
> 
> Somehow, porn happened. Straight porn, which is even weirder since I'm unashamedly a massive slash fangirl. Whatevs, though. Porn is porn, yeah?
> 
> Title from Rihanna's 'Birthday Cake'. One of these days I'm going to stop using her lyrics as fic titles, but today is not that day. In my defence, she makes really fucking catchy lyrics about having men go down on her, which ... uh, yeah. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! :)

Michael knows he's in trouble when Miranda – and it's definitely Miranda now, not Mrs Zabini – invites him and Ginny back to the Zabini estate for the weekend. 

“We’re celebrating the engagement of a friend of mine,” she says. “I do hope you and your sister can join us.” And she places a slender hand on his arm, dark eyes watching him from beneath long lashes, and Michael can’t say no. 

It comes as something of a shock to realise he doesn't _want_ to say no to her.

Yeah, she's gorgeous, and usually, that's enough to catch Michael’s admittedly shallow attention, but her dry, sharp sense of humour, her weirdly endearing arrogance and self-absorption, and the tendency she has to smile at him with that palpable knife-edge of warning – all of it makes his mouth go dry, his robes feel too tight, and makes him wish frantically that she wasn’t a suspected serial murderer because, _God_ , he really wants to fuck her.

And it _would_ be fucking, he thinks hazily, leaning heavily against the wall and trying not to make any noise while he wanks off for about the fourth time that day. Jesus, with seven husbands, she’ll know all sorts of weird, depraved shit none of his previous girlfriends had wanted to try. She's probably into heavy bondage, and toys, and – fuck, _fuck_ – and orgies, and, and –

“Shit,” he says with feeling, as he comes into his hand. He slides down the bathroom wall, dazed and breathless, wiping his hand on a nearby towel on the way down.

Apparently he haskinks. Who knew?

***

When he swirls through the Floo to the Zabini estate, both Miranda and Blaise are waiting for him – and ten seconds later, Ginny – in a small anteroom just off the main hallway. Blaise is wearing his usual black – Michael has yet to see him in anything but – while his mother is wrapped in a vibrant turquoise summer dress, lovingly smoothed over every curve.

_I’m screwed_ , Michael thinks desperately, trying not to stare at the dark swell of her breasts and failing. _I am so screwed_.

Whether Miranda notices, it's hard to say, but she smiles at both him and Ginny, tugging on the latter’s arm and leading them through to a large sun room, where apparently the engagement party is being held. Blaise follows, slouching carelessly – and okay, Michael might find the opposite sex infinitely more appealing than his own, but hell, that arse could probably convince him otherwise – and Michael trails behind, looking around at all the understated opulence of the Zabini homestead.

Chandeliers are much in evidence, but instead of the usual colourless crystal, these are dripping with jewel-bright stones that sparkle multicoloured pinpricks of light where the sun hits them. The floors are polished cream marble, the walls hung with tapestries in warm tones, and the grand staircase they pass on the way to the sun room curves off to the right and left at the summit, leading to the next floor. A man-sized vase stands in this corner, an armless white statue in that one, while a small Flutterby bush twitches and quivers in yet another. _Nice_ , thinks Michael, the interior designer.

There are already several other witches milling around in the sun room, sipping glasses of golden champagne, or tropical style drinks with umbrellas and bits of ornamental fruit floating in them. He and Blaise are the only men there, Michael realises, feeling slightly panicked. He’s heard what happens at hen parties from his older sisters – he's not going to participant in that kind of fresh hell, thank you very much.

Not that any of the women here seem inclined to that sort of thing. They all look like the very posh, refined, _uptight_ women the wizarding aristocracy is full of, which is another reason Michael kind of wants to sleep with Miranda. She's so cool and composed most of the time that he wants to tear her hair down from its sleek knot, hike her dress up to her waist and fuck her over a table, the sofa, the end of a bed. 

Jesus. He's such a pig. And this is definitely not the kind of thing he should be thinking about in a room full of women who'd probably castrate him if they could hear his thoughts. Michael hurriedly adjusts his trousers so they won’t notice his semi-erection, and takes the drink that Ginny passes him. She smiles over at Blaise as she does so, almost as if she can’t help herself, and Michael has a second to be vaguely amused and slightly disconcerted, before turquoise fills his vision and he's getting an eyeful of Miranda’s cleavage again.

“Michael,” she says, that smooth, husky voice going straight to his cock. He hadn’t bothered to give her a false name when they’d met; his records with the DMLE have been temporarily ‘misplaced’, so, should Miranda or Blaise get the urge to do some investigating, they’d find no trace of him anywhere. Ginny had been unable to do the same, owing to the fact that she knew Blaise at school, and also that her unreasonably red hair and innumerable freckles mark her down as a Weasley before she ever has time to introduce herself.

“Michael?” Miranda says again, a slight furrow appearing between her eyebrows, and Michael realises he’s been staring at her, open-mouthed. 

“Sorry, miles away,” he says, smiling sheepishly at her. “What can I do for you?”

Oh, he’s really set himself up there. Miranda smirks, and yes, it's definitely a smirk, and a particularly lewd one at that. 

“Would you mind getting some more ice for the drinks?” she says, although with that sexy rasp in her voice, she could very well be asking for something much more enjoyable. “I’d magic it in but, well, I don’t have my wand.” She smirks again, leaning in. “I had nowhere to put it,” she says, whisper-soft, her breath hot on Michael’s ear.

Blood drains from his head to his groin without seeming to pause in his midsection. Christ, he has to get out of here. Nodding frantically, he follows her directions to the small room where the ice is being kept magically fresh, scoops a silver champagne bucket into the freezing cubes, turns, and goes back into the sun room. 

Miranda is waiting for him over by the bar, fingers carelessly curled around a champagne glass. She beams at him when he brings the ice over, an honest to God all-out beam that makes Michael’s breath catch, and brushes her hand over his in thanks when he sets the bucket down. Her fingers are cool and slightly damp with condensation from her glass. Michael feels a shudder start at his spine and work its way upwards. She smiles, slow and cat-like, and withdraws her hand.

_She must know what she’s doing_ , Michael thinks wildly. _She has to know she’s driving me insane_.

But apparently, she doesn’t know, or at least, she's not letting on that she knows. Someone calls her name from the other side of the room, and with an apologetic glance at him, Miranda sails off to talk to whoever hailed her. Michael is left standing at the bar, staring dumbly at his hand where she’d touched him.

***

He doesn’t speak to her again for another three hours. He sits with Blaise and Ginny, who are chatting pretty amicably for two people who’d despised each other only a week ago, and a few other blokes who've been dragged along by their wives for whatever bizarre reason. Several of the other guests drift over from time to time, including one witch with short blonde hair and a serious attitude problem, bitching loudly about the Ministry’s politics surrounding female employment in the Wizengamot under a new Chief Warlock. Michael thinks _dyke_ about ten seconds before he realises she actually has a point under all the legal-speak, and resolves to get her name for a referral to the wizarding courts.

He wanders around the room a little while after that, heading to the bar, when he hears someone mention Miranda’s name, followed immediately by someone else saying, “That’s right, I heard the ink hadn’t even dried on the marriage certificate before she did away with him.”

A weird feeling settles on Michael’s chest at those words; half anger that someone would say such a thing at a party hosted by the woman in question, and half unease at the thought that there might be truth to the rumours about Miranda Zabini after all. He stops a little way away from the two witches having the discussion, pretending to be staring out over the rest of the guests, minding his own business.

“My God, how did this one die?” the redheaded one says, one manicured hand fiddling with her necklace.

“Well, they _say_ he choked on a fishbone, but my Katherine, she works in the Auror department, you know, and she said no bone was ever found, and more to the point, there were marks around his neck, as if he’d been strangled.” The shorter of the two women, her curly hair pushed behind her ears as if to tame it, looks on impressively as her friend gasps, horrified yet strangely delighted at the tale.

“Of course, it’s not much of a surprise,” the redhead says eventually, a surprising amount of venom lacing her voice. “She always was a vicious bitch. And there are rumours about she and her son, you know, that they ... _well_. Let’s just say they’re closer than they ought to be.”

“No!” the other woman hisses, shocked. “Are they really? Dear Merlin, the entire family is degenerate! Something should be done about them, they can’t be allowed to get away with that sort of thing, surely?”

“She’s probably sleeping her way through the Auror ranks, Bernice, you know that. It’s why no one’s carted her off to Azkaban yet.”

Bernice gasps again, and Michael can’t listen to them anymore. He turns, about to lash out at them for spreading more slander, and then realises that he's guilty of the same thing, and he whirls on his heel and storms out of the room.

There's a small chamber just off the main hallway, about two doors down from the sun room. He goes in, closes the door behind him and goes straight to the window, where the late evening sun is streaming through the glass, staining everything a deep gold-orange.

This is typical, so fucking typical. He’s just got used to the idea of lusting after an older and more attractive woman than he usually goes for, and it just figures she’s a maniacal husband-slaughterer who uses sex to keep herself out of jail. There's a part of him that wants not to believe the rumours, but an even bigger part knows there's something decidedly macabre going on. One woman does not become a widow seven times without indulging in some sort of foul play. It's just impossible.

And as for the rumours ... Yeah, he’s heard the one about husband number seven and the fishbone, and the one about sleeping her way through the Aurors. But the one about her and Blaise, that they have some perverted, incestuous relationship – bloody hell, people really _will_ believe anything they hear, won’t they?

Behind him, the door to the room opens, and he turns, expecting Blaise or Ginny, perhaps wondering where he’d got to. It isn’t either of them; instead, Miranda steps into the room, closing the door behind her and then walking over to join him by the window. She says nothing for a few minutes, seemingly content to just stare out at the grounds while Michael wonders what's going on.

“So,” she says at last, not looking at him. “You’ve finally heard the rumours.”

“What?” Michael says, playing for time. This is not a conversation he wants to have. The fact that he has to, not least because it's his fucking _job_ , for crying out loud, doesn’t make him feel any better about it.

Miranda sends him a sharp look, made all the more pointed by the bitter, sardonic smile twisting her mouth.

“Please don’t play dumb with me, Michael,” she says flatly. “I saw you listening to Bernice and Cornelia, and I know exactly what those two think of me.”

Michael honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. Miranda sighs impatiently and faces him.

“Let me guess,” she says conversationally, but there's a sneer lurking in her expression. “You heard the rumour about my seventh husband’s death? About how no fishbone was ever found but there were mysterious marks around his neck? Or perhaps the one about my fourth husband and how the Aurors found him in a pool of his own blood on the patio?”

Actually, Michael hasn’t heard that one, but he doesn’t get the chance to say so because Miranda is still talking.

“Or maybe it was even the one where I walked in on my second husband in bed with his lover and slit both their throats? No?” she asks, eyes bright with malice, voice lowering to an angry growl. “Ah, well then, perhaps it was the one where I killed off my son’s fiancées in a fit of jealous rage because we’re sleeping together?”

She doesn’t shout, her voice just continues in this furious purr. But there's a resentful curve to her full mouth that twists Michael’s gut when he realises he's doing this to her, that the people out there in the sun room _right now_ are probably perpetuating the many and sundry rumours about Miranda Zabini and not caring about the effect it might have on her.

“I don’t – I mean, I know ...” he begins, without any idea of what he's going to say.

Miranda shoots him a mocking, amused look. “You don’t know a damn thing, Michael,” she states, and Michael bristles because, damn it, he's probably the only person who wouldn’t care if she killed off all her husbands, if she's fucking her son or the Aurors and –

Holy _shit_.

He really, seriously doesn’t care if she’s murdered someone, multiple someones in fact – the idea is, well. It makes him uneasy, of course, freaks him out a bit, because if she can get rid of seven people without getting caught and locked up in Azkaban for it, then who's to say she can’t get rid of seven more? And who's to say he won’t be one of them? But hell – and that's where he’s probably going to end up for thinking this – if it isn’t the tiniest bit arousing. He’s always had a thing for the strong, powerful female thing, though this is so far beyond the pale, and Miranda is just ... 

God, but he is so _fucked_.

She's looking at him curiously, but with a glint in her eye that suggests she might know what he's thinking, which sends all sorts of obscenely thrilling thoughts running through Michael’s head, and he swallows against his suddenly dry mouth.

“I actually don’t care,” he says, and his voice has lowered about three octaves and Miranda _has_ to know what that means. “Uh, about the rumours, and stuff,” he clarifies, feeling numb and stupid with lust as she smirks again. “Seriously. I – I mean, they’re only rumours. Right?”

And here's the bit where she's supposed to agree, and Michael will snap out of this daze and they’ll go back to the party, and that'll be the end of it. No one seems to have told Miranda that, however, because she moves closer, confident and alluring like she is in everything, into his personal space.

“For a jaded business wizard, you’re incredibly naive sometimes,” she says softly. Then she leans in, and he can smell her, not just her perfume, but _her_ , musky and exotic and incredible, and Michael can’t help taking a deep breath and tilting forward to meet her halfway.

She smiles again, and moves to his ear. “You want to know a secret?” she whispers, and presses her lips to the hinge of his jaw. Michael hears himself make a small noise but can’t seem to stop it. He nods, but truthfully he doesn’t care about any secrets, he'll agree to anything she says right now, if only so he'll finally get to touch her.

She bites his earlobe sharply, and murmurs hotly into his ear, “My first husband died while we were in bed together, while we were fucking,” and Michael can’t take it anymore, hearing her say it is the last straw.

He turns his head, finds that lush mouth and kisses her hard, one hand coming up to cup her breast, the other sliding along her thigh to grab at her arse. She sucks in a sharp breath and hooks the same leg around his hip, turquoise dress slipping upwards, fisting her hands in his jacket’s lapels and fucking his mouth with her tongue. Michael pushes the left strap of her dress down over a smooth brown shoulder, sliding his hand inside to get at hot flesh, stroking a thumb across her nipple just to feel Miranda jerk against him. With a rough sound, she bites at his bottom lip, then pulls her mouth away to smile a not-quite-pleasant smile at him.

“I’m going to fuck you,” she says, and it sounds like a threat the way she says it, but Michael doesn’t care, because he can _so_ get behind this, is desperate for it.

“Yeah,” he pants, unable to resist leaning down and licking a wet stripe across her nipple. She curses and ruts against him helplessly. “Fuck, yeah, do it, I want –”

His hand, which has been steadily sliding under her dress at her hips, fingertips learning the feel of her skin, suddenly reach her groin and find no barrier of underwear to speak of. He almost chokes as his fingers stroke through coarse hair, finally meeting heat and wetness. He pauses, surprised and crazy with want, and Miranda lets out what might be a groan and presses his hand down harder with her own, manipulating his fingers over her clit. She groans again, and gasps out, “God, _god_ , just there – right th – oh, _god_.”

Before he can figure out whether that high-pitched keen means she came or not, Miranda rips his hand away and kisses him, dirty and messy and _hot_ , and before he knows it, she's pushing at his head, his shoulders, trying to push him down, and he moans and grinds at his cock with the heel of his hand when he realises what she wants. 

He pushes her backwards, aiming her towards – thank god, a handy table, and lifts her onto it. Then he kisses her again, missing her mouth in his haste and getting her chin slick and wet; she doesn’t seem to care, only lets out a hiss of, “hurry up, _hurry up_ , fucking do it already,” as he kisses his way down her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts, as far as he's able until his mouth hits the low neckline of her dress. He kneels on the floor, rolles the skirts of her dress up until they bunch at her waist, then parts her long, smooth, dark brown legs and buries his head between them.

The first touch of his tongue has her arching up, hips thrusting uncontrollably, as she presses a hand to the back of his head and urges him on. He licks into her, laving at her clit over and over again, feeling heady and dazed as she fucks his face, her heavy pants turning into short, desperate wails. The heat of her under his mouth, the smell of sex and _her_ , the twitching muscles in her thighs as he strokes the outsides with his palms, even the ache in his jaw as he opens wider for her ... Jesus, God, he could do this all day, let her use him like this, take what she wants without asking.

When she comes, her whole body seizes up for several long seconds, and then she falls back, limp, onto the table, breathing harshly and unlocking her legs from around Michael’s shoulders. Michael leans back, frantically tugging at the zip on his trousers and shoving his hand in, pinching his cock so he won’t come too. Miranda lifts herself up onto her elbows and stares down at him, watching with a lazily amused expression, looking for all the world as though she intends to just look at him for hours. Michael absolutely does not whimper when she gets down from the table, hair a mess and dress still hiked up to her waist, looking so thoroughly fucked that he can’t help but feel a bit smug, and kisses him again, this one a little bit slower and sweeter than the ones before.

If it wasn’t for the ache of want in his cock, he might enjoy it more. As it is, he pulls away and bites out, “Touch me, or, or fuck me, or _something_ , please, god, I need – need –” realising at the last minute that he sounds utterly desperate and not caring in the least.

With a laugh that doesn’t sound particularly amused, Miranda yanks at his trousers, pulling them and his boxers down to his knees. Then she throws one leg over so she's straddling him, holds onto his shoulder with one hand, grabs his cock with the other and guides him into her without pausing. She slides onto his cock so easily, hot and wet and _perfect_ , and rolls her hips slowly. Michael gasps out a wordless approximation of her name, grips her hips and shoves into her, mouthing wetly at one of her breasts where the material of her dress had slipped down to reveal it. 

They push and thrust that way for a few more minutes, but the angle isn’t right and it's taking too long and he's close, so _close_ ... So he gently pushes her backwards, feels her legs tighten around his waist again, and lies her out on the floor as she writhes and shoves back against him. Her hands are smoothing over his back, one slipping down the back of his trousers, into his boxers, finger sliding along the crack of his arse. Michael lets out a choked sob – _Christ_ , she's – and it's – and _fuck_ , that's – and comes so hard his vision greys out at the corners and he can’t breathe for a few seconds.

He pulls out and rolls over to lie down next to her on the floor, breathing so hard he wonders vaguely if he's hyperventilating. But no, it's just the result of really great sex, so he's not too concerned.

Beside him, Miranda is suddenly sitting up and walking over to a small chest of drawers Michael hadn’t noticed before. From the top drawer she pulls out her wand, and sets about repairing the damage that's been done to her appearance. Several spells later and her hair is smooth and neat again, the wrinkles in her dress have been ironed out, and her make-up is immaculate once more. Michael thinks he likes her better when she's post-coital and messy, but says nothing.

At last, she turns to him, smiling the bland, careless smile that she gives everyone, which, ouch, suddenly doesn’t seem so attractive anymore. “Well,” she says, and even her voice has gone back to normal. “As enjoyable as that was, I must get back to the party. People will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

She moves to the door and opens it, and it isn’t until she's almost across the threshold that she glances back at him, eyes flashing hot for a second as she says carelessly, “Oh, and next time? I’m going to blow you. Have a nice day.”

Michael can only stammer out a reply as he stares after her retreating back.

***

Two days later, she makes good on her promise (threat).

***

Two days after that find him tied to a bed, completely naked, while Miranda stands over him, fully clothed, and Michael has no idea how they got here.

Well no. He knows literally how they got here; it was when he turned up at the Zabini estate, hard and feeling like he must be going insane. Miranda took one look at him and dragged him inside and upstairs, kissing him and stripping him in the most tortuously slow fashion.

What he can’t figure out is _why_. He’s never really been into the whole dominant/submissive thing, and okay, he’s tried the bondage thing out a couple of times but it'd never really done a lot for him. His five years as an Auror have left him with the all-too-common fear of losing control, and every single one of his past girlfriends bemoaned his lack of interest or commitment to them once they got the sex out of the way. So why the hell does he keep ending up on his back, getting fucked three ways from Sunday by a woman who, let’s face it, is in all likelihood a sociopathic serial killer with deep-seated psychological issues and an incredibly twisted relationship with her only son?

Yeah. It makes no sense. And then Miranda scores her nails firmly along his thigh and he decides that as long as he _continues_ to get fucked three ways from Sunday by said sociopath, he really can’t bring himself to angst over the whys and wherefores.

He's definitely going to regret that later, he can tell.

**Author's Note:**

> I might add to this later because I kind of want to write about them having ALL the hot, filthy, downright _nasty_ sex they can manage without passing out. Any objections? :)


End file.
